


Keith Kogane

by Justmenoworries



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Violence, Gun Violence, Kidnapping, M/M, Mafia boss' son Lotor, Mafiaboss Zarkon, Non-Consensual Drug Use, it a John Wick AU, retired!assasin Keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-06-05 21:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15179510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justmenoworries/pseuds/Justmenoworries
Summary: Based off this tumblr - post: "john wick sheith au with keith as john wick and shiro as his husband except shiro didn’t actually die and was just kidnapped by the galra mafia :3c"





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Keith notices upon waking up is that the space on the bed beside him is empty. He has to take a few seconds to calm down after that.

 

He closes his eyes, counts to ten.

 

_Breathe._

 

_You’re not working for them anymore._

 

_He’s safe._

 

_You’re both safe._

 

He manages to at least get the whirl of fear and paranoia inside him under control enough to get up slowly and check the underside of his pillow for a familiar shape. His tensed muscles relax a little when he feels the cold metal of the knife.

 

Despite the atrocities he’s committed with it (or perhaps because of them? Some days Keith isn’t really sure) it is precious to him. An old friend from days long passed, aiding him when things got ugly. It’s the only thing he has left of his family.

 

Or was, before he met Shiro.

 

Thinking of his husbands warm smile drives out the last bit of anxiety. Keith swings his legs over the side of the bed and heads for the shower. The knife stays under the pillow. It took him weeks to manage to go shower without it.

 

Keith turns the water to the warmest setting and for a while he just stands there, letting the heat pour all over his face and body, eyes closed in pure bliss. A memory springs up of Shiro, trying to sneak into the shower and yelping in surprise and pain at the scaling hot water.

 

They’d both laughed about it afterwards, and Shiro had winked at him and said: “Now I know why you’re so _hot_.”

 

“That was terrible.”

 

“Aw, come on!”

 

Keith brushed his hand against the golden metal band on his ring finger. It was always comforting to know it was still there, that this wasn’t just a dream or a hallucination and he was actually here in their house and not bleeding out in a ditch from bullet wounds somewhere.

 

Utterly drenched, Keith steps out of the shower, dresses himself with quick efficient movements and walks down the stairs to the kitchen. A quick glance at the kitchen isle tells him Shiro isn’t here either. A billion worst case scenarios come flooding into his head at once. Keith pushes them all down with a deep breath and decides, well, if Shiro can take an early morning walk, he can too.

 

They need some milk anyway.

 

Except _walking_ to the store wouldn’t be fun.

 

Keith grins wickedly to himself, snatches two keys – one for the house, one for the “Red Lion” - of the isle and flings his favorite jacket (red leather) over his shoulder.

The bike is waiting for him in the garage, patient, loyal, like it always has. Even in the dark Keith can make out the slick, aerodynamic features and the intense smell of red paint.

Keith hops on with the ease one gets from years of practicing how to make a quick getaway, pushes the garage-door button and rushes out as soon as the door is high enough that he can get his head through by ducking.

 

The red lion roars triumphantly and the surge through the streets together, two partners on a mission and nobody better get in their way.

 

The old woman next door waves at him and Keith grins and waves back curtly, before focusing all of his attention on the road.

 

He’s missed this. It’s probably the only thing he misses from back then.

 

Just driving, driving, faster and faster, until he feels like the road behind him has caught on fire. He imagines Shiro behind him on red, slinging his muscled, toned arms around his waist, nuzzling his head into the crook of Keiths neck.

 

The parking lot is nearly empty, courtesy of the early hour. Keith ambles through the automatic doors calls out a lazy saturday morning ‘hello’ to the clerk and makes for the aisle with the groceries.

 

His favorite brand has gotten a bit more expensive. Keith ponders whether to settle for the cheaper milk for now, but in the end nostalgia wins and he grabs the carton of ‘Kalteneckers’ Best’ and makes his way to the cash register.

 

He notices as group of people standing nearby, one man and four women in suits. The man says something and drives a hand through his long, white flowing hair and the women laugh.

 

Force of habit makes Keith do a quick once-over on all of them. He raises an eyebrow. The women all wear weapons under their jackets, though they’re hid quite expertly, Keith has to admit. The man doesn’t seem to be armed but there’s something about him Keith just takes an immediate disliking to.

 

Maybe it’s the way he leans against the counter, smug smile on his face as if he owns the store, maybe it’s this underlying aura of unpleasantness he exudes but Keith decides whatever this guys deal is it’s none of his business.

 

Without sparing them another glance, Keith steps up to the counter and puts the milk carton in front of the clerk, wondering if he’s going to get home before Shiro.

 

He hears someone clearing his throat right next to him and turns his head.

 

It’s dreamy hair-guy all polite smiles. The women are surrounding him, the biggest one practically daring Keith with her eyes to try and threaten their boss.

 

“Excuse me,” the man says with a slight accent that Keith subconsciously places as upper-class british. “I couldn’t help but notice that vehicle out there. Would it happen to be yours?” He points a finger at Red, clearly visible to the stores glass front.

 

Keith nods. “Yeah.”

 

“Splendid! I’ve taken quite a shining to this particular model, yet despite my fathers….resources, I have yet been unable to obtain a beauty like this. How much?”

 

Keith turns back to the clerk and starts counting coins into his hand. “It’s not for sale.”

 

“And will it still not be for sale, if, say, I offered you a million gak for it?”

 

Keith stops counting and looks at the man again. He’s still smiling, but Keith can feel the strain. He’s never met this man before but he’s met a dozen _like_ him. The second he mentioned his father Keith had known what kind of person this man was.

 

A rich kid.

 

A daddys boy.

 

Someone who got what he wanted _when_ he wanted it. And god help anybody who dared to even try say no. Daddy would probably be on their sorry asses in a second.

 

The type of person who doesn’t take kindly to being denied.

 

But Keith has lived a long and hard enough life to know that behind all that bravado and polite demeanour always lies a spoiled brat. And he’s never been one to give into a spoiled brats demands.

 

Slowly, deliberately, he turns to face the man head on, giving him his full attention, catching his eyes in a neutral, but steady stare.

 

“Then it still wouldn’t be for sale. I don’t want your money. I have no idea who you are, but you’re bad news and I want nothing to do with you or your father.”

 

The amicable smile freezes.

 

Keith turns back to the counter, grabs the milk and makes his way around the man and his bodyguards out of the store.

 

By the time he’s riding red back home, he’s already forgotten about him.

 

 

 

Shiro’s still not there when he enters their house through the garage door.

 

Keith wonders if he should call him on the phone, but decides against it in the end.

 

Shiro doesn’t have Keiths’ special training, but that doesn’t mean he’s a push-over or helpless. Heck, he’s at least a head taller than Keith and he’s practically bulging with muscle. Sure, he’s about as ferocious as a new-born kitten but you’d never guess at first glance.

 

Nothing will happen to Shiro.

 

His thoughts are interrupted by the tell-tale creak of their front door being pushed open. Keith feels himself stiffen and he mentally calculates how quiet he could manage to sneak upstairs and get his knife.

 

He’s spared the effort though when Shiro walks around the corner, beaming with satisfaction and carrying a big box with holes punched into the sides.

 

“Hey Keith! You’re awake?”

 

Keith smirks and walks over, giving his husband a loving peck on the nose.

 

“It’s 10 A.M. Shiro. You’d have to worry about me if I wasn’t awake.”

 

“Whoa, it’s that late already? Guess I took longer than I thought.” Shiro gives an embarrassed chuckle and carries the carton over to the living room. “Sorry for making you wake up alone by the way. I just really wanted this to be a surprise.”

 

“Surprise? Why?” Keith asks, following Shiro and throwing curious looks at the box. He could’ve sworn he just heard something from inside it.

 

Shiro doesn’t answer. Instead he just gives a secretive smirk, puts the box on the carpet, then sits down behind it and pats it’s surface.

 

Keith raises an eyebrow, kneels down to and opens the lid.

 

Two small curious black button-eyes look back at him, accompanied by a squeaky whine.

 

Keiths eyes widen.

 

“Is that….?”

 

“Happy birthday, Keith.” Shiro says warmly, smiling at his husband who seems to be at a lack of words.

 

With hands that are only slightly shaky, Keith reaches into the box and lifts out a small dog with blue-black fur.

 

“He’s beautiful,” he whispers, looking back at Shiro.

 

“I knew you’d like him,” Shiro says. “I’ve noticed you’ve had your eyes on that little guy every time we went past that pet shop. So I thought why not? I actually wanted to place him on the bed and make him lick your face as a wake-up call but I guess not even the two of us together were a match for your early bird habits.”

 

Keith lunges forward and embraces Shiro with one arm, carefully cradling the dog with the other.

 

“Thank you. I love him. I love you both.”

 

After that it was a light-hearted dispute of what to name the dog, which Keith one by bringing the ultimate argument (“It’s _my_ birthday.”) and a quick trip to the vet.

 

Yorlak, as the dog was to be called from now on at Keiths behest, was possibly the purest little bundle of joy Keith had ever seen.

 

He wasted no time exploring every nook and cranny in the house, begging for belly rubs from him as well as Shiro and making a sad face when none of them wanted to give even the tiniest bite of their dinner to him later that day. Although Keith _did_ see Shiro ‘accidentally’ dropping a piece of steak on the floor when he thought Keith wasn’t looking.

 

They fell into bed beside each other, exhausted from the extra errands, but happy about their new family member, who was currently making himself comfortable in the dog bed they’d gotten him earlier and giving a satisfied yip.

 

Keith turned on his side and brushed a hand through Shiros hair, smiling.

 

“You always know how to make me feel loved, Shiro.”

 

Shiros loving gaze made Keith fall for him all over again.

 

“Well, I couldn’t call myself a good husband if I couldn’t even do that now, could I?”

 

Keith chuckled.

 

“You’re such a dork.”

 

“Says the guy who named his dog after his Craftstar avatar!”

 

Keith playfully punched Shiros shoulder, then rolled up on top of him.

 

“That was awfully mean of you, Mr. Kogane. And on your mans birthday,” he purred, eyes sparkling.

 

Shiro looked up at him with a devious smile. “And what are you going to do about it, Mr. Kogane?”

 

Keith leaned down until he was right beside Shiros ear. “I suppose since I’m a dog owner now, “he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, “I should really work on my _training skills_.”

 

He let his tongue flicker over the earlobe, which prompted a surprised gasp from Shiro.

 

“That sounds better,” Keith smirked. “I wonder, what other sounds could I lure from that pretty mouth of yours?”

 

He began to slowly kiss his way down from Shiros ear, to his neck, careful to hit all the particularly sensitive spots.

 

“Guess you’ll have to – ahh! - find out,” Shiro mumbled underneath him, trembling with desire.

 

Keith chuckled lowly. “Oh, I will.”

 

He slowly moved to unbutton Shiros pajama shirt, eager to show him just how firmly he planned on training him – but then he heard the noise.

 

Anyone else might have missed it. A small creak, barely loud enough to raise attention. But to Keith it was as loud and clear as if somebody had just thrown a fire cracker onto the ground right beside him. He stopped mid-motion and whipped his head around to the bedrooms door.

 

“Keith?” he could hear Shiro ask. “What’s wrong?”

 

Keith hesitated for a second. It could have been anything. The wind, a loose floorboard, a mouse. But Keith had spent a long enough time in his former profession to learn that noises like this were rarely ever just anything. A lesson that had kept him alive all these years.

 

“Someone’s down there,” he said, keeping his voice just loud enough for Shiro to hear.

 

“What?”

 

“Stay here,” Keith said, swiftly climbing off of Shiro. “I’ll go check.”

 

Ignoring Shiros confused look, Keith made his way to the door, silent as a cat advancing on its prey. He pushed the door open just wide enough for him to slip through, mentally cursing himself for not having turned off the lamp on the nightstand. If he was unlucky, the intruders had already advanced into the deeper parts of the house and seen the brief flicker of light from upstairs.

 

Too late to worry about that now.

 

He made his way down the stairs as quiet as he could.

 

Just when he reached the end, there was swift movement behind him and before Keith could react, the back of his head was exploding with pain.

 

His knees gave way and it was all he could to prevent himself from falling too bad. He could feel something wet where he’d been hit, but his only thoughts were of Shiro, still up there in the bedroom. Keith pleaded with whatever higher force there was that Shiro would listen to him and stay put. The intruder was armed and Keith hadn’t even been able to protect _himself_.

 

If only he had brought the knife with him.

 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

 

Four pairs of boots and one pair of expensive-looking dress-shoes wandered into his point of view. Keith forced himself to look up. He was greeted by the smug smirk of the man from the store who had wanted to buy red. Only now there was a side of cruelty to it. Keith found himself wondering whether or not it had been there all the time and he’d just failed to notice, like he’d failed to notice so many other things today.

 

“Mr. Kogane! So nice to meet you again,” the man said in a jovial tone, as if he hadn’t just broken into Keihs house and had one of his bodyguards assault him.

 

The man knelt down to Keiths eye level, that damn smirk still on his face. “I believe I haven’t properly introduced myself the first time we met. The name is Lotor. You had best remember it. That way you’ll know which man not to piss off next time.”

 

Keith let out a low growl and tried to lift himself up, only to have one of the bodyguards bring a foot down on his back, hard.

 

“Now, now, haven’t you learned anything?” The man, Lotor, chided, waving his finger back and forth in front of Keiths nose. Up close, Keith finally noticed the tattoo on Lotors palm. He felt himself grow cold.

 

“Ah, so you noticed,” Lotor said, voice taking on a conversational tone. “It was perhaps not your best idea to provoke a member of the Galra-family, hmmm? Especially not it’s future leader.”

 

Keith felt the bile rise in his throat. The past he’d thought he left behind when he’d met Shiro had come back after all these years. And in the worst possible way.

 

Seemingly oblivious to Keiths’ inner turmoil, Lotor straightened himself again, brushing some nonexistent dust from his clothes.

 

“Search for the key to that bike of his,” he ordered the three remaining bodyguards.

 

Keith tried once again to get up, but the woman who’d planted her foot on his back brought her gun-handle down on his already pretty battered head and he saw stars.

 

“Easy now, Mr. Kogane,” she said cheerily. “It’s just one bike. Not a big deal is it?”

 

Keith would have loved to give a cutting reply to that, but his brain and his mouth refused to work together properly.

 

And then everything took a turn for the worse.

 

A sudden burst of light fell down the stairs, illuminating the entire scene. Yorlak came bundling out of the room barking loudly and making a dash for Keiths tormentor, teeth bared in a snarl. Heavy steps followed and Shiro appeared at the top o the stairs, eyes wide and worried.

 

“Keith!”

 

Keith wanted to call out to him, to tell him to stay away, to go back to the bedroom and barricade himself in there, but it was too late.

 

Following Yorlaks’ example, Shiro ran down the stairs, charging at the woman holding Keith down – and then Lotors’ other bodyguards returned. One of them grabbed Yorlak by the neck and hurled him up roughly, while the other grabbed Shiro and locked his arms behind his back in an expert grip.

 

It was the big one who held Shiro, the one who’d low-key tried to intimidate Keith back at the store. Shiro was struggling with all his might, but she didn’t even budge. Keith noticed, somewhat uselessly that she was taller than Shiro.

 

“Ah, now what _do_ we have here?”

 

Lotor had returned from where he’d wandered off to search for Keiths’ keys, the remaining bodyguard not far behind him.

 

“I never would have taken you for the type, Kogane,” he said walking up to Shiro who was watching him with a mixture of fear and anger. “Not that I blame you, he’s positively lovely.”

 

Undeterred by the fury blazing up in Keith’ eyes, Lotor took Shiros’ chin in one hand and turned his face a little. Shiro shuddered with disgust and tried to pull away, but Lotors’ grip was incredibly tight all of a sudden, making Shiro flinch with pain.

 

Keith tried to force his limbs to work, so he could push the bodyguard off of him and rescue Shiro, but the pain coming from his head wound had slowly, but steadily become nigh unbearable. Everything was too bright, too _loud_. Yorlaks’ frantic barking didn’t make it any easier.

 

But he had to do something, _anything_ to get Lotor and his goons out of here and away from Shiro.

 

Like a miracle, Keith finally managed to organize what remained of his thought process enough to speak.

 

“Leave….leave him alone,” he rasped, hating that he sounded so weak and desperate. Lotor turned to look at him, clearly amused by Keiths’ struggle.

 

“You want….my bike, right? You can have it, the key’s…..on the counter. But please,….let him go….”

 

There was a slight flash of….something in Lotors’ eyes for a second as he listened to Keiths’ plea. Keith couldn’t place it, but he prayed it was just satisfaction from seeing the guy who talked back to him so utterly defeated and humiliated.

 

But then Lotor dashed those hopes with his next sentence.

 

“Hmmm, yes I believe I will take that. And your pretty husband too, while I’m at it.”

 

“No!” Keith shouted, shooting up with a sudden burst of strength, but the bodyguard hit him again, way harder this time and he went limp. He heard Shiro scream his name, but it felt like he was suddenly under water and everyone else was so far away.

 

The last thing he saw was Lotors’ satisfied smirk and the tall bodyguard dragging Shiro towards the door.

 

“ _And_ do _shut up that damn dog Narti, it’s giving me a headache.”_

 

“ _No! Stop it! Let me go, let me help him, he’s hurt! Keith! Keith!”_


	2. Chapter 2

Keith wakes up to the sun shining brightly through the living room window, one of it’s rays going straight for his eyes.

 

Slowly, carefully he brings a hand up to the back of his head. The tell-tale feeling of dried blood and a slight sting. He will need to clean that first things first. Groaning, Keith props himself up onto his knees. When he does, his arm brushes against something soft. His head whips around and when he sees what it is he hit, he freezes. Yorlaks body is laying right beside him, head twisted at a weird angle. A memory flashes up, the sound of Lotors’ voice complaining about Yorlak being too noisy…

 

That dog has been a gift from Shiro. Another reminder of how much he loved Keith. It hasn’t done anything wrong. And Lotors’ bodyguard has snapped its neck. Keith has seen a great deal of corpses in the past. Mangled, dismembered, bloated, you name it. He thought he’d gotten over the need to vomit every time he sees one. Yet for some reason Yorlak lying so still, black eyes empty and lifeless brings up the familiar queasy feeling in his stomach. Gently, Keith cradles the dead body into his arms and lets his face sink into the fur, still so soft. But not warm, not anymore. Yorlak is dead.

 

And Shiro….

 

_They took him._

 

_The Galra took him and now he’s gone._

 

_Because of you._

 

_Because you were careless._

 

Grief and sadness transform into rage, pain and guilt. Images of the previous night flood his mind. Lotor gloating, while one of his henchwomen keeps Keith down. Shiro and Yorlak trying to come to his rescue. Shiros desperate screams as the tall bodyguard drags him away from Keith and out of the door.

 

The pounding at the back of his head is drowned out by a million thoughts storming his brain at once, all ending with a bullet rammed into the head of each member of Lotors’ little gang. And those are the ones for the very unlikely case that they’ve managed to keep their fucking hands off of his husband. He doesn’t even realize he has pressed Yorlaks’ corpse against himself tighter and tighter.

 

A few seconds go by in which he does nothing but sit. Sit and think. He will rescue Shiro. It’s not a wish, nor is it simply a promise he makes to himself. It is an absolute certainty, no debate. He has let Shiro down once, he will not do it again. Lotor managed to catch him off-guard, because he was careless. Because he has grown complacent. And Shiro had to pay the price for it. Shiro, who never had anything to do with the abyss of violence, blood and never-ending darkness that has been Keiths’ life before they met. Shiro who is so gentle and kind, he sees the good in people like Keith and never gives up on them.

 

Another memory comes back up, unwanted, unbidden, but it’s already there before Keith can stop it: Lotor cradling Shiros’ face in his hand, giving him an appreciative look. Shiro squirming in his grasp unable to get away.

 

Keith lifts his head. The burning hot maelstrom of anger and vengefulness that’s been raging in his chest is gone. In its stead a cold, calm fury he hasn’t felt in years. As if someone flipped a switch, his old self is there again, the one he so desperately tried to forget and never become again. But if he wants to save Shiro, if he wants them both to come out of this alive, he will _need_ to be that man again.

 

Keith stand up, Yorlak still in his arms. He moves the dogs’ body under his arm and starts to walk towards the closet. Without putting Yorlak down, he grabs an old cardboard box and a shovel with his free hand and makes his way out of the back door. With precise movements, he stuffs the body into the box and begins to dig. When the hole is approximately as deep as the box is high, he sets it inside and throws the earth back onto it, mentally apologizing to Yorlak for not taking the time he should with this. Keith is sure Yorlak would understand.

 

When he’s finished he goes back inside to clean up last nights’ mess. He doubts that any neighbors heard the commotion of the previous night, but in case they have and have for some reason decided to call the police like good, law-abiding citizens, it will be better if he’s gotten rid of any evidence of the ambush beforehand. Keith never liked it when cops stuck their nose into his business. Lotors goons weren’t shy when they looked for the keys. Almost every piece of furniture is overturned, every vase, unlucky cup or glass shattered. Even the microwave and the TV have fallen victim to their need to send a clear-cut message: _Don’t fuck with us_.

 

Keith snorts. He couldn’t care less about their childish need for validation. The things they’ve destroyed were just that: things. If they had kept it at that, he would have let them go. But they overstepped their boundaries the second they laid hands on Shiro. And now? Now there will be hell to pay.

 

After the last glass shards have been chucked into the trash can, Keith goes upstairs. He pulls open the dresser and shuffles through the clothing, until he arrives at the very back. The suit is still hanging there, waiting patiently. His old working clothes. Tailor-made, every last piece. Streamlined, inlaid with bullet-proof, yet hair-thin plates of lead and so many hidden pockets one would go crazy from trying to memorize which held what. Keith had. And it saved him many times.

 

He extends his hand and softly brushes over the jacket. It’s a bit dusty, but still fully functional. Keith goes to grab it, but then stops himself. Will he need it for his first stop?

 

He thinks half a second, then pulls his hand back.

 

If the owner of the place he intends to go to still remembers him (and Keith is certain she does) then it won’t be necessary to start working right away. No need to get the suit dirty so soon.

 

He lets the other cloth hangers fall back into place and decides on a black shirt, a red leather jacket and a simple pair of black pants.

 

Everyday clothes.

 

Clothes that say: “I just want to talk.”

 

Whether or not what they say is the truth is a thing that will depend entirely on the outcome of this first visit. He snags his old belt with the small scabbard and pulls it around his waist, closing it with decisive, quick movements.

 

Done.

Only one thing left.

 

Keith walks over to the bed and pulls the knife out from under the pillow. Even when he quit his old job, he could never quite let go of it. He’s been polishing and sharpening it every day and it shows. The blade gives a chilling glint when he pulls it out into the sunlight, eager to serve him and thirsty for blood. Keith briefly lets his fingers slide over the Galra-emblem on the hilt. He’s been given it by his mother, after his first successful kill for the family. One year after, she had disappeared, leaving no trace behind. Keith wonders where she is now and if she would approve of what he is about to do. At the same time he knows he would not care if she wouldn’t. He’s no longer part of the family. If they try to stop him, they will merely be another target to eliminate. With an air of finality, he shoves the knife into the scabbard.

 

When he’s about to head out, he gets a quick look of Shiros’ side of the bed. It’s a mess, the cover hastily thrown to the side. Keiths heart hurts at the sight. Shiro wanted to help him and now he’s in the hands of a psychopathic man-child. Alone and scared. Keith kneels down and lays his head on the pillow.

 

“I’ll find you,” Keith whispers. “I promise Shiro. Just hold on.”

 

When he gets up, there are no tears in his eyes. No time for that. He walks down the stairs and into the garage.

 

He never really expected to find Red still waiting for him, but he still feels a twinge of annoyance when he sees the empty spot were it used to be. Another look around shows him that whoever got Red has also demolished his and Shiros car.

 

The front window has a bullet hole in it, the tires have been cut open and the seats resemble a stuffed animal that has been turned inside out. Keith clucks his tongue in mild irritation and goes back to the living room to get his wallet. If he’s fast, he can take the next bus at the station a few streets away. He memorized the route to his first destination by all means of transport. Another old habit he couldn’t abandon and that will pay off nicely now.

 

 

Katie “Pidge” Holt is cleaning her workshop, like she always does in the afternoon. The myriad of different vehicles around her, coupled with all the workers and assistants who work on them makes the occasional scrubbing sound the only give-away of her presence. And even that is mostly drowned out by the screaming of cutters and the crackling of blow-torches. Pidges’ height has always been a thing that lend her to ridicule from many a customer and target alike, but she’s learned to ignore it. She is good, no, the best at what she does and that alone is enough to make most of the wise guys shut up.

 

Pidge is neither a fighter, nor a killer, so she’s found her own way of making herself irreplaceable to the family. Convertibles. More specifically, the tuning and re-building of convertibles. She’s always had a thing for technology and mechanics. So why not mix business with pleasure? Every car that comes into her workshop leaves it with a new face and few additional functions under the hood. What they’re used for afterwards is none of her business. She just takes care of vehicles, everything else doesn’t matter.

 

Or at least it hasn’t. Until….

 

She’s cleaned the last remaining puddle of oil and gasoline off the floor, when she hears the garage door click and whirr behind her. Stiffening, Pidge takes a deep breath, puts her cleaning utensils aside, takes of the rubber gloves and walks over to the entrance. Strictly speaking she’s on break, but she has a feeling that her visitor really couldn’t care less.

A young man about her age with a red leather jacket stands in the entrance.

 

“Hello Katie,” he says. There is no animosity or rage in his voice, but Pidge knows that doesn’t mean shit when it comes him. The noise around them has died down with his arrival. All eyes are on them.

 

“Hey Keith,” Pidge answers in what she hopes is a jovial tone, while giving the workers an impatient wave to signal them to get on with whatever they work on right now.

 

She has known Keith Kogane for years. They shared a genuine love for fast cars and racing and whenever he needed another make-over for his convertible, he’s come to her. They’ve been out drinking together after his first job, she’s been right by his side when he told the Don he would quit.

 

And Pidge knows that one wrong word could make all of that null and void.

 

Keith is one of her best friends.

 

And he will kill her, if she doesn’t pick her next words carefully. Witnesses or no.

 

“Was he here?” Keiths eyes hold hers and don’t let go. Pidge suppresses the urge to swallow. She doesn’t need to ask who.

 

It takes all of her courage to walk over to the small transportable cabinet in the middle of the room and get out a bottle of vodka and two drinking glasses. She’s found that keeping her hands busy with something stops them from shaking.

 

She arranges them on the hood of the car she’s been working on before her break and pulls up a chair for them both. To her relief, Keith takes the invitation. He sits down, eyes steadfastly on her.

 

“He was,” Pidge answers finally, pouring them both a drink. She extends a glass to him and he takes it. He doesn’t drink form it right away, of course. Only after she’s taken a sip. “I recognized your bike right away. Lotor seemed really proud of it.”

 

The faintest twitch of an eyebrow is the only answer she gets to that.

 

_Careful now._

 

“You know, I refused to-”

 

“I don’t care about the bike.”

 

Pidge clams her mouth shut. She knows that tone. She’s heard him use it with a lot of people. Right before he cracked their heads open.

 

Keith empties his glass in one sip, putting it back on the hood. Then he turns back to her and Pidge swears she feels the room temperature drop when his eyes are on her again.

“He told me he’s Zarkons’ son. Is that true?”

 

Pidge nods. She doesn’t trust her voice.

 

Keith seems to think about that for a second. Then he looks at her again.

 

“I’m gonna need a ride.”

 

Fear and worry fight an intense battle for dominance in Pidges’ head. In the end, worry wins out.

 

“He told me.” she blurts out. When Keith doesn’t say anything, she just carries on. “About…how he took your husband and all.”

 

Still no answer. Instead, Keiths gaze has suddenly grown intense. Pidge can see pure, cold blood-lust in those eyes and she thanks whatever deity there is above that it doesn’t seem to be aimed at her. For now, at least. What she’s about to say might very well change that.  But Keith is her friend and she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t at least try to say something.

 

“Listen, I understand how you feel,“ she starts, doing her best to not look away, “but…think about this. Whatever you’re about to do, you’ll have the entire Galra family to deal with. Just…how important is this person to you?”

 

“He’s my life,” comes the answer, without hesitation.

 

And it’s said with such utter conviction that Pidge has no doubt Keith is serious. And that she won’t be able to stop him.  She sighs and gets up.

 

“Follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering "Hey! Where's the infamous 'where'd you get that car-scene?"  
> Worry not, it's coming and I'll do my best to do it justice.^^


	3. Interlude: Pidge and Lotor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To avoid confusion: the events of this interlude take place before Keith's and Pidge's conversation in the previous chapter.

Pidge has a feeling it’s going to be a shit day when she hears the familiar roar of a sports cars engine. She’s not good with faces, but she never forgets an engine she’s worked on. To her, they’re like finger prints, all unique to the owner. And the Sincline is no different. Normally, Pidge would be overjoyed to see one of her “patients” again. Every time a vehicle leaves her care, there are thousands of new ideas of what to improve on it in her head. Sincline is her pride and joy, but Pidge knows she can do better with her.

 

If only she was owned by someone else.

 

Pidge doesn’t look up from the car she’s currently working on, a fast get-away, probably only to be used once. She hears the car door slam and Lotor’s voice, followed by the laughter of his bodyguards. His “Generals”, as the rest of the family calls them when they’re not there to hear. Pidge can’t remember a time when they haven’t clustered around Lotor like a bunch of ducklings.

 

“Katie, my dear,” Lotor calls. “I am in need of your talents. A new coat of paint and a few personal modifications on the license plate. I believe purple would be a nice color.”

 

Everyone else would have found themselves with a wrench wedged into their skull for calling her that. Around here, she’s Pidge. Katie is for family and friends. Lotor is definitely neither. But he is _going to be_ her boss one day. And so she just swallows the cutting remark waiting on the tip of her tongue, puts her tools aside, wipes her hands on the cloth rag lying on the floor and turns around.

 

And freezes.

 

Lotor is saying something, but she can’t hear.

 

Behind Sincline is a roll trailer. And on that trailer is a sleek, red, bike.

 

For a second, Pidge feels like she’s going to throw up then and there. But she pulls herself together. Maybe it’s just coincidence. Maybe this one just looks like his. Yes, it’s just a freaky look-a-like it has to be. Not even _Lotor_ would be stupid enough to…to…

 

But no.

 

Pidge never forgets a vehicle that has been under her care once. And this one, she’s had to repair so many times in the past. Still, a part of her refuses to believe it.

 

“Where did you get that bike?” she hears herself ask, voice unusually high. Somehow, without noticing, her feet have carried her all across the room right up to the trailer.

 

Lotor raises an eyebrow and lazily ambles up to her side. “Does it matter? It’s mine now.”

 

Pidge’ s head is buzzing with thousands of questions and she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to know the answer to any of them. The bike stands on the trailer, shining bright red, looking down at her accusingly. Red like blood….

 

Maybe there is still time to save this, she thinks.

 

She looks up at Lotor.

 

“Get out of my shop.”

 

Lotor blinks. “What?”

 

“Get out. Of my shop. Right now.” Pidge repeats, not breaking eye contact. Lotor looks down on her, nothing but utter confusion in his eyes. The generals have stopped their chatter and turned their eyes on her. Axca has her hand hovering over her weapon. It takes roughly two seconds for Lotor’s usual arrogant smirk to return.

 

“Oh Katie, don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve? It’s just a small bike-”

 

“I don’t give a shit what it is,” Pidge cuts him off, already walking back to the engine she worked on. “I’m not laying a finger on it. Get someone else to do it, I’m out.”

 

She reaches for the wrench. All of a sudden Lotor is right beside her, grabbing her wrist. His eyes spit fire as he looks at her.

 

“I believe you’ve forgotten your place, _dwarf_ ,” he snarls. “You have no right to refuse me. I own you. The Galra family owns you. And you are going to do as you’re told.”

 

A remark about her height, how original. Why is it that people always try to scare her by reminding her that she is smaller than them? It’s hardly news to her. She pulls her arm back with ease, ignoring Lotor’s irritated frown.

 

“You don’t scare me, Lotor. And you don’t own me.” she says, calmly, looking up at him. “I do business with your dad, got it?”

 

Lotor sputters something unintelligible. Behind him, the generals are trading looks, unsure of what to do. Pidge almost feels sorry for them. Almost.

 

Her wandering gaze brushes over the bike again. She should just let it go. She’s made herself clear enough and if Lotor runs off to daddy and tattles, she’ll just tell Zarkon who exactly it is his son stole from. He’ll understand. But there’s still one question in her mind, bubbling under the surface, unwilling to just be drowned out like the rest.

 

“The owner of the bike,” she says, not looking at Lotor or his underlings as she speaks. “Did you kill him?”

 

It’s a horrible thing to ask under the circumstances and Pidge hates herself for the minor, almost microscopic part of her that hopes the answer will be ‘yes’.

 

Lotor chuckles. “No, I didn’t feel like wasting a bullet on him. I merely helped myself to his bike…and his husband.”

 

The wrench drops to the ground with an ear-shattering clash. Slowly, Pidge turns her head around to Lotor, who is smiling again.

 

“You mean…you mean you kidnapped his husband?”

 

Lotor shrugs and grins as if to say ‘guilty as charged’.

 

Pidge stares at him in sheer disbelief. She feels a giggle built up in her throat. She can’t help herself. Giggles become laughter. Laughter becomes hollering. It gets louder and louder until the whole workshop seems to be filled with the sound. A few of the other workers turn around and throw worried glances at their boss, who is currently doubled over, holding her belly from laughing. Tears are coming out of her eyes.

 

The generals don’t know what to do. Axca still has a hand on her weapon. Ezor nervously plays with her long, red ponytail. Zethrid’s eyes race between Axca and Lotor, waiting for orders that never come. Narti just stands there, unmoving, unflinching as always.

 

When Pidge finally gets a hold of herself and manages to look at Lotor again, he looks more than just a little disturbed, though he tries his hardest to hide it.

 

“So...so let me get this straight: You...you broke into his home…..you stole his bike…and then…then you kidnapped his husband?” Pidge wheezes, brushing tears out of her eyes. “That’s…that’s so messed up..”

 

And then without a warning she jolts up and punches Lotor. Hard. His head snaps back and he falls over, blood trickling from his nose onto the floor.

 

Zethrid, Narti and Ezor are by his side immediately, fussing over him, helping him sit up. And Pidge finds herself with the barrel of Acxas gun pressed to her forehead. Pidge doesn’t even flinch.

 

“Go ahead,” she tells the woman. “Shoot me. And when you’re done, take your fucking idiot of a boss and that bike and get the hell out of my shop. Or just leave right now. Fine with me.”

 

Acxas hand is shaking with rage and Pidge can tell she has a hard time holding herself back from just pulling the trigger. A wet cough sounds from behind them. Lotor is leaning heavily on Ezor, fine suit messed up by a couple of small blood stains. He’s got some running out of his mouth and nose, too.

 

“Leave her be, Acxa,” he croaks, attempting to pull a cocky grin. It doesn’t quite have the same effect when he’s clinging to a smaller woman to stand. “I suppose if our dear Katie is so frightened by this particular bike, we shall take our business somewhere else.”

 

Acxa hesitates, but in the end her loyalty wins over her anger and she reluctantly pulls he gun away and puts it back into her jacket.

 

“You will face consequences for this, “she hisses, eyes glaring daggers at Pidge. “No one strikes a future heir of the Galra family and gets away with it. Zarkon will-”

 

“How about you let me worry about what Zarkon will or won’t do,” Pidge cuts her off coldly. “And let me get back to my work?”

 

If looks could kill, Acxa would be staring at a copse right now. She spits at Pidge’s feet, then turns around and gets into the Sincline, together with the rest of Lotor’s gang. Pidge watches them as they drive away. When she can’t see Sincline on the road anymore, she lets out a deep, tired sigh and retreats back to the workshop, getting a bottle of vodka and two glasses from her office in the back.

 

She has a long day ahead of her. Better to prepare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, we'll have a look at how Shiro's doing. :3c


	4. Chapter 3

It has been a few hours since Keith’s departure, yet Pidge’s hands are still shaking. She knows she should count herself lucky. She’s still alive and kicking and Keith’s righteous and deadly fury is now directed at someone else. She’s managed to survive ye another day.

 

But she just can’t forget the way Keith looked at her when he arrived.

 

To anyone else, anyone who hasn’t spend years routinely conversing and working with him, he would have seemed completely calm, a bit disinterested even.

 

Pidge knows one wrong word out of her is all it would have taken for him to take her out, then and now.

 

She sighs heavily and leans her elbows on her writing desk, burying her face in her hands.

 

The workshop is completely empty at this hour and she’s taken the opportunity to retreat to her private room at the back. To think, mostly.

 

And to prepare.

 

The phone on her right starts to ring. It’s an old dial-up. She’s salvaged it from the dump and tweaked it a bit in her free time.

 

Technically, Pidge should dread this call. She should pick up immediately, fumbling for words, tongue tying itself into more and more knots while she’s trying to make up a sincere sounding apology. But after her encounter with Keith this afternoon, she merely glances at the receiver, wondering what could have taken so long.

 

Waiting any longer to pick up would be considered an insult, so she grabs for the phone and holds the receiver to her ear.

 

“Holt speaking.”

 

“Greetings Katie.”

 

Zarkon’s deep, rumbling voice has a deceptively calm tone to it. Being a nearly six foot tall man with a physique like an ex-pro-wrestler and eyes that could melt steel makes it necessary to keep at least that aspect of you pleasant, so your business partner won’t nope the hell out of your house, Pidge supposes.

 

Not that Zarkon would actually have to care about things like that. Anyone who would be bold (or stupid) enough to walk out on the head of the Galra – family would find themselves riddled with bullets at the end of the week. At best.

 

“Hello boss.” she responds, equally pacifying.

 

“My son has visited your workshop today.”

 

Straight to the point.

 

“Yeah, he was here.”

 

“And he has told me that not only have you refused him service. But that you struck him.”

 

Pidge swallows. Zarkon is not Keith, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. Far from it.

 

“Yes. Yes I did.”

 

Silence.

 

Is he surprised by her honesty?

 

Or is he ordering his goons to march into her workshop right now, while holding a hand over the speaker?

 

When he finally speaks again, there is no notable change in his voice. “May I ask why?”

 

Pidge licks her lips and leans back in her chair. “Because he stole Keith Kogane’s bike and kidnapped his husband.”

 

Silence again. This time it lasts way longer. Pidge begins to wonder if she should just hang up.

 

“I see.” Zarkon says finally.

 

And then there’s nothing but the dial-up noise. Pidge lets the receiver drop back onto it’s stand with a shaking hand. It’s only after she releases a huff of air that she notices she’s been holding her breath.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lotor stalks through the hallways of the penthouse, whistling a tune with no real melody and toying with the gun in his left hand.

 

Despite the rather...disappointing setback at the workshop it has been a pleasant day for him all in all. The task his father has given to him has been accomplished with little to no trouble. A debtor whom the family had lend a generous amount of money to, had rather foolishly decided that actually paying your debt was overrated and had tried to skip town via a human trafficker.

 

Unfortunately for the man, his contact had been on Lotor’s fathers payroll for about two months now. It hadn’t been made public yet, so the poor fool had had no way of knowing and when he arrived at the docks, Lotor, Axca, Zethrid, Ezor and Narti had been waiting for him.

 

Lotor remembered the look of pure shock and despair in the man’s eyes and gave a quiet chuckle. He felt no pity for the man. Trying to betray the Galra-family had been a mistake. The very last the man would make.

 

After the way that insolent brat Katie Holt treated him, sinking a few bullets into some vermin’s body was precisely what the doctor ordered. The memory makes him finger his throbbing jaw absentmindedly.  
  
He hopes his father has ordered the men to make her death slow and painful.

Nobody fucks with the heir of the Galra – family.

 

Speaking of….

 

The true highlight of his day has yet to come.

 

After he’d resolved his business at Kogane’s house, Lotor had allowed himself to bring in some information about his new….guest.

 

And he was more than impressed with what his generals had been able to find.

 

He has to admit: Kogane had good taste in men for a rude little nobody.

 

There was a _lot_ more to Takashi Shirogane than good looks.

 

And Lotor couldn’t wait to claim it all.

 

He makes his way towards the guest tracks, almost colliding with two of the guards. Lotor raises an eyebrow.

 

One of the men is bleeding heavily from the nose and is limping so severely that his partner has to hold him up.

 

“What is the meaning of this?” he asks the guard stabilizing the injured one.

 

The man flinches when he realizes who’s talking to him, almost dropping his partner in the process.

 

“You’re….um…..new guest tried to leave early, Sir,” he answers, visibly swallowing. “We managed to bring him back to the guest room but he….well….he _really_ didn’t want to go.”

 

As if on cue, a crash and a scream, followed by multiple people shouting resounds from the hallway behind the pair. The guard flinches again. Whether in sympathy or fear, Lotor can’t tell.

 

Lotor gives an amused smirk. “I see. Tell me, was that his first attempt to ‘leave early’?”

 

He vaguely motions at the injured guard.

 

“No Sir”, the other man answers him, sounding a lot more tired. “He’s tried it before. About five times, I think.”

 

Lotor nods understandingly.

 

“Well, you had best bring your partner to see one of our doctors. I will take a look at our little wanna-be escapee in the meantime.”

 

“Yes, Sir!”

 

The guard hurries on, dragging his nearly unconscious partner away with him.

 

Lotor watches them go, smile never fading.

 

It is good to see that the fight hasn’t yet gone out of Takashi.  
  
Lotor hasn’t been able to pry away at that spirit yet.

 

Back when they took him, they’d put him on drugs the minute they entered the Sincline, as to avoid the risk of him screaming for help during the ride back. It had been quite the struggle. Zethrid was a woman of formidable muscle and she had managed to handle him quite well until then, but it had taken both her and Axca to hold him down long enough for Narti to give him the shot.

 

The commotion he had heard in the hallway has died down when Lotor arrives at the room he has decided to give to his latest catch.

 

Half of the guard are breathing heavily, leaning onto each other or the nearby walls. The other half is hauling their limping, bleeding bodies towards the door Lotor has just come out of. They stop in their tracks when they see him, but Lotor merely steps aside, gesturing invitingly at the hall behind him.

 

He makes sure to take a good look at each and every man and woman who limps by him. More than one of them carries a black eye, a split lip and bruises of various shapes, sizes and colors. To an unsuspecting spectator, they’d seem random. But Lotor is anything but.

 

These people have been handpicked by his father, they’re the best of the best. Their weapons as well as their combat skills are way above the average gun for hire. Yet here they are, whimpering and shaking while fleeing like a bunch of beaten dogs. Because of one man.

 

As the last one has dragged herself out of his sight, Lotor finally turns around and walks over to Takashi’s room. The remaining group immediately stands at attention when he walks into their field of vision.

 

“I would like to speak to my guest.”

 

The guards exchange slightly concerned looks.

 

Lotor frowns. “Do you think me so weak, that I cannot handle one man?”

 

“N-No, of course not, Sir,” one of them is quick to answer. “It’s just that..well...he’s not really...in the best mood, Sir. He might-”

 

“Oh believe me, he’ll be tame as a kitten with me.” Lotor interrupts, smirking.

 

They still seem hesitant, but at last one of them pulls out a key and cautiously unlocks the door, while the others swiftly get into a defensive position.

 

But when the door opens, there is nothing. The guards seem surprised and relieved at the same time.

 

Lotor’s smirk grows and without sparing them another glance, he walks through the door.

 

“Have some tea prepared,” he orders.

Lotor has spared no expenses when picking Takashi’s quarters. The room he walks into is gigantic.

 

The walls are covered with velvet in the deep trademark purple of the Galra- family. Though it has no windows, a great, beautifully embroidered ceiling light provides more then enough light to illuminate every last corner.

 

In its light can be seen what was once an elegantly furnished room, but is now nothing but an ugly mess.

 

An overturned glass table, as well as two velvet sofas and two comfortable armchairs lie littered around the room.

 

The only piece of furniture still intact is a king-sized bed with a golden frame, standing on the room’s right.

 

And on that bed sits Takashi.

 

He apparently hasn’t heard Lotor come in. His back is hunched and his head is lowered. He is looking at something in his hands that Lotor can’t see.

 

Lotor gives a polite cough. “Hello, Takashi.”

 

The man jumps up and whirls around, already taking on a fighting stance. When he sees Lotor, his expression changes from wariness to anger.

 

“Oh don’t give me that look. I have no intention to harm you. For now, at least. And before you do something you are going to regret,“Lotor says, holding up a hand. “I would suggest thinking about your situation. I have armed professional guards stationed outside. As of now, they have been given the instruction to not use any of the fire arms they carry on you. But should you choose to be….difficult, well….”

 

Lotor gives a cold smile. “I don’t think I need to elaborate further.”

 

Takashi’s hands are curling into fists, his whole body is shaking with rage. For a moment, Lotor wonders if he will have to make true on his threat. But fortunately, the man is far more reasonable than his hot-headed partner. His eyes are still cold as steel when he looks at Lotor, but the tension has gone out of his body a bit, hands limply hanging by his side now.

 

Lotor gives an approving nod.

 

“Much better. Now,” he walks over to the overturned furniture and puts one of the armchairs back up. “Why don’t we have a little talk?”

 

Takashi hesitates for quite a while before he, too, takes a chair and seats himself. As far away from Lotor as possible.

 

At that moment, the door gives a creak and two of the guards walk in, one carrying a tray with two steaming cups on it, the other keeping a keen eye on Takashi, who returns the look with a glare.

 

“Ah, wonderful!“ Lotor gestures to the glass table, still lying on its side. “Right there, if you please.”

 

The guards quickly pick up the table and set the tray on it. There is a noticeable haste to their movements, Lotor notices with a smirk. Once they’re done, the two retreat as quickly as they came.

 

Lotor picks up one of the cups and takes a swift sip. His eyes are always on Takashi who in turn has not taken those unforgiving eyes off off Lotor since the guards have left the room.

 

He is even more attractive when he’s angry, Lotor muses.

 

He sets the cup back down. “Now, I am sure you-”

 

“Let me go.” Takashi cuts in sharply. “You have no right to keep me here against my will.”

 

Lotor blinks, then gives a chuckle. “Straight to the point, hm? Very well. I will be just as swift.”

 

He leans forward, fixating Takashi with a cold look. “You will find that your ‘rights’ do not matter in this humble abode. You have no ‘right’ to make demands. You have no ‘right’ to leave. And it would be in your best interests to treat me with _respect_. Your very life is in my hands. I could have you killed with the snap of a finger. I would hate to have to do so, however. I can think of far better uses for you then target practice for those buffoons outside.”

 

Lotor smirks and extends a hand to stroke Takashi’s cheek. He finds his wrist trapped in an iron grip.

 

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Takashi growls, shoving his hand away with force.

 

Lotor smirks and massages his wrist. “Feisty. I like that in my partners.”

 

Takashi gives a bitter half-smile. “Already married, sorry.”

 

Koganes face flashes into Lotor’s mind for just a second. His polite smile freezes.

 

“Ah, yes. Your ‘husband’...” He lets the sentence hang in the air for a few minutes to make an impact. “Tell me, does he know everything about you Takashi Shirogane? Or would you prefer...Champion?”

 

Takashi freezes, eyes going wide. “H-How…?”

 

“Oh please. You think someone with my resources wouldn’t be able to find that information?” Lotor gives a satisfied smirk and picks up his cup for another sip. “Though I must admit, you did quite a good job of covering it all up. Anyone else would have been at their wits end.”

 

“You know, I couldn’t quite believe it when Axca handed me the file. And yet it made sense. See, when I first ordered them to find some information about you, results were scarce, to say the least. All our usual sources told us the same: that you were a model citizen with a vest so white you’d be blinded looking at it. The perfect poster boy. Too perfect.”

 

Lotor looks into his cup with a slightly nostalgic expression. “You know, if working in my father’s business has taught me anything, it’s that innocent people do not exist. And so imagine my joy when that lesson was once again proven right by you.”

 

He looks back at Takashi over the rim of his cup. “I must admit I am impressed.”

 

“That’s in the past!” Takashi snaps, though it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of that more than anyone else. His finger are digging into the armrests. “I’m not that person anymore.”

 

“Is that so?” Lotor asks, setting down the cup once again. “Then I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if that particular information somehow reached your dear husbands ears?”

 

“No!” Takashi jumps up. “You-you can’t….you wouldn’t - !”

 

“I can and I will. But I suppose I might reconsider.” Lotor says, regarding him calmly.

 

He gets up and saunters over to Takashi.

 

“If you would give me sufficient incentive to do so.”

 

Takashi frowns. “And what kind of incentive would that be?”

 

Lotor chuckles. “Why, I thought that was rather obvious.”

 

With a meaningful smile, he raises his hand to gently stroke Takashi’s cheek.

 

Takashi visibly recoils, but does nothing to stop him. Instead he just shuts his eyes tightly and lets it happen, hands curling into shaking fists.

 

Lotor smirks. “Now, was that so hard?”

 

His hands wander down onto Takashi’s toned chest, toying with the buttons on his shirt. “Rest assured, once I’ve had you, you’ll forget all about him.”

 

Takashi stiffens and opens his mouth to say something, but before he can the door behind Lotor opens.

 

“Sir?”

 

Lotor glares at the door. Axca is standing in the doorframe, her eyebrows raised slightly at the display before her. “This had better be important.”

 

Axca shrinks back a little. “Y-Yes, Sir. Your father wants to speak with you. I think it’s about your latest mission.”

 

Lotor sighs and pulls back. “I suppose I shouldn’t let him wait then.” He turns around to Takashi and smiles. “We will continue this at another time. I look forward to it already.”

 

Takashi merely looks down, his whole body tensed up.

 

He is still standing there when Axca closes the door behind Lotor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He always despised how his father would just summon him whenever he needed something. As if Lotor was no better then the mindless drones doing the families dirty work. Not even his mothers death could make Zarkon warm up to him in that regard.

 

Lotor swiftly steps through the corridors leading to his fathers office, Axca’s right behind him. She knows better than to try and cheer him up with worthless platitudes or even worse – show him useless pity.

 

They arrive at a pair of big double doors, flanked by two heavily armed guards. They don’t react when Lotor steps in front of them. _He_ is not the one filling their pockets. One of them merely opens one of the doors, allowing Lotor and Axca to walk through.

 

His fathers office is shrouded in darkness, apart from a few wall lamps and the occasional flicker of a computer, positioned on a large writing desk. Zarkon has his back to them. He looks out the window that makes up a good third of his office’s back wall, hands clasped behind his back as if in deeps thought.

 

Upon hearing the door shut itself, he turns around. His expression is unreadable as always. His bulky physique almost drowns what little light the window brings into the room.

 

For a while none of them says anything.

 

Lotor knows that his father will talk when he sees fit. And that he doesn’t appreciate it when others try to initiate first. He deems it disrespectful.

 

At last, Zarkon walks over to one of the cabinets filling the right side of his room. He unlocks it, takes out a bottle of wine and two glasses, then comes over to Lotor.

 

Lotor watches him pour them both a glass with practiced ease.

 

“I assume you had a pleasant trip?” his father asks. His voice fills the whole room, even though he hasn’t raise it a bit.

 

Lotor nods and with a confident smile accepts the glass his father is offering. “Indeed. Rest assured we will not hear from that man anytime soon.”

 

Zarkon nods. “Good, good.”

 

The two of them raise their glasses to a toast before they swallow their contents in unison. Zarkon finishes first, putting his glass back on his writing desk and watching Lotor drink up.

 

“I heard you’ve had some fun while you were out,” he says taking the glass out of his hand again.

 

Lotor gives an irritated frown. Apparently someone has informed his father of the...lesson he taught Kogane and for some reason, his father disapproves.

 

Before he has time to feign ignorance or come up with a retort, Zarkon rams his fist into his stomach, making Lotor gasp and double over in pain. Axca freezes, not sure whether she is allowed to help Lotor or not.

 

Thankfully her boss manages to keep the contents of his stomach down, sparing him the humiliation of throwing up on his father’s priceless carpet.

 

“I suspect I did something to warrant this?” Lotor spits, looking up at Zarkon while still holding his belly.

 

“On that you would be correct,” Zarkon responds in a tone that makes Lotor’s skin crawl.

 

“I did what you asked of me,” he rasps, slowly lifting himself up from the ground. “And no one saw us taking care of the _problem_.”

 

Zarkon roughly grabs him by the arm and hoists him up.

 

“I am not talking about the harbor.”

 

Having a sudden realization, Lotor looks up at his father with disbelief in his eyes. “Is this...is this about Kogane?”

 

The look in Zarkon’s eyes is all the answer he needs.

 

“All of this...because I stole a rude prick’s motorcycle and helped myself to some...other things along the way?” Lotor asks. He can barely stop himself from laughing at the absurdity.

 

Zarkon’s fist finds his stomach a second time and he falls back to the ground.

 

Lotor coughs, trying once again not to spray his stomach contents all over the floor. His father has already turned away from him again, strolling back over to the window.

 

When Lotor finally manages to get back up, he speaks.

 

“ _What_ you did is not what angers me,” Zarkon says, not turning around. “But _who_ you did it to.”

 

Lotor snorts. “So you are furious with me because of a filthy little nobody?”

 

Zarkon slowly turns to look at him, fixing Lotor with a look that he cannot place.

 

“That ‘filthy little nobody,” he answers so quietly Lotor almost can’t hear him, “is Keith Kogane.”

 

A heavy silence fills the room.

 

“ _The_ Keith Kogane?” Acxa’s voice comes from behind Lotor. There is awe in her voice, something Lotor has only heard when she was talking about him before. He turns around to glare at her, but before he can ask, Zarkon does.

 

“You are familiar with the name?”

 

“I...I’ve heard stories,” Acxa stutters, taking a small step back. “But I didn’t think-”

 

“Back when he was still in the family,” Zarkon interrupts her, his attention on Lotor again. “we called him ‘The Red Blade’. A rather silly nickname looking back now. Because he was far too skilled in what he did to _ever_ leave such obvious an evidence as blood on his weapons of choice.”

 

Lotor frowns. “So he was a hitman for the family? What of it?”

 

“Oh, he was far from just a usual gun for hire,” Zarkon answers. “He was _the_ hitman. An unstoppable force of cold fury, intelligence and deadly precision.”

 

He pauses for a while, as if in deep thought. “Once an opposing family send a team of expert bounty hunters to assassinate him. He killed all five of them with nothing but his bare hands. His _bare fucking hands_. All of them were renowned professionals in their craft, yet none of them managed to even put a scratch on him. He presented me with their heads the day after. And the way he told me the story, you wouldn’t have been mistaken to believe he was talking about a swarm of particularly vexing flies.”

 

He looks at Lotor again. Lotor doesn’t say a word. Although he’d never admit it, a feeling of dread has begun to form inside of him, growing stronger with every word his father speaks.

 

“And then one day,” Zarkon continues, seemingly oblivious to his son’s inner turmoil, “he asked to leave the family. He had apparently fallen in love and though he would not tell me the person’s name, I could tell the relationship was serious to him.  
So, I offered him a deal. Should he manage to carry out one last job for me, I would allow him to retire and live his new life in piece. It was an impossible task, a job of such complexity every other member of the family would have given up on it.  
But the very next week, he stepped into my office again, pale and exhausted. And he only spoke three words: ‘It is done.’

And it was.

The lifes he ended in that single week, are the foundation on which our empire is build.”

 

Throughout the whole story, Zarkon hasn’t taken his eyes off of Lotor once. Now he begins to advance on him, arms folded behind his back.

 

“And on this very day I learn that you have not only broken into his house and stolen his motorcycle,” he comes to a halt right in front of Lotor his massive frame even more noticeable now that he is up close, “but kidnapped his husband. The very person he has murdered, no, _massacred_ a group of people that until then were thought to be impossible to kill for.”

 

Lotor fights to not buckle under his fathers now withering gaze. He has never seen him that angry before.

 

“I will take care of the matter at once,” he says, hoping the terror doesn’t show in his voice.

 

Zarkon raises his eyebrows. “Oh? And how do you plan on doing that?”

 

“By finishing what I have started,” Lotor responds as steadily as he can.

His fathers eyes turn to slits. “Have you not heard a word of what I said?”

 

Zarkon leans down until his lips are right beside Lotor’s ear.

 

“Keith will not simply let this stand. He will come for you. And when he does, there will be nothing you, or your _generals_ ,” the word is spat out with such derisiveness it makes Lotor clench his teeth, “can do about it. Now get out of my sight.”

 

Lotor stumbles back, almost colliding with Acxa.

 

He tries to say something, but his father’s back is turned on him again. A clear sign of dismissal.

 

Shaking with rage and, for the first time in a long while, fear Lotor quickly leaves the office, Acxa following close behind.

 

The walk back towards the corridors side by side, not saying a word.

 

“Your father underestimates us,” Axca says, once they are well out of hearing range. “This Keith Kogane is only one man. What can he do against the entirety of the Galra – family?”

 

Lotor doesn’t find it in himself to answer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just noticed Lotor gets punched a LOT in this story.
> 
> Not that he doesn't deserve it.


	5. Chapter 5

After Lance has left, Keith shuffles through the house, not looking at any of the bodies.

 

Instead he walks over to the phone and picks up the receiver, dialing. It takes a while, but at last a chipper voice perks up on the other end: “Hotel Castillo de Leones, how may I help you today?”

 

“Coran. It’s Keith.”

 

There is silence on the other end of the line for a second.

 

“ _Keith_? Keith Kogane?”

 

“The same,” Keith replies, feeling a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth at the elation in Corans’ voice. “I’d like to make a dinner reservation for 12.”

 

* * *

 

 

Only a few minutes later Keith’s doorbell rings again.

 

When he opens this time, a group of men is standing outside, a van titled “Kinkade’s Waste Disposal” right behind them.

 

A tall, black young man steps forward, inclining his head. “Good to see you, Keith.”

 

Keith returns the greeting. “Right back at you, Kinkade.”

 

Kinkade gives a smile, stepping aside to let the rest of his crew in. “You look good. And here I’d feared you’d left all of this behind.”

 

Keith doesn’t quite know how to answer to that, so he doesn’t.

 

Kinkade’s men work very efficiently. The corpses are wrapped up in plastic and thrown into the back of the van. The blood and glass shards are mopped up with special polish that leave no traces of either, should a policeman feel brave enough to actually investigate, put in bags and taken away. Within minutes, Keith’s house is clean. There is nothing left that even hints at the fact that five people have died here only about an hour ago.

 

Keith walks Kinkade back to the door. Kinkade turns around to face him.

 

“Will I be hearing from you soon?”

 

Keith grips the other mans hand, placing a small stack of gold coins in it. “Good night, Kinkade.”

 

Kinkade grins. “Keith.”

 

Keith watches as the van drives away. His hands have clenched into fists.

 

He hates how easy this was.

 

* * *

 

 

Zarkon sighs. “Of course he did.”

 

He taps a finger against the glass in his hand, eyes fixed on the fireplace thoughtfully. Sendak watches his boss with a cautious eye.  
He knows this look.  
He has seen it plenty of times in the days when the doctor was still frequenting the penthouse. In the days before Honerva’s death. The sickness was perhaps the first thing Zarkon has not been able to control through money or violence. All the more reason to despise it.

 

Keith Kogane is like the sickness, in a way. Only much more vicious.

 

Zarkon speaks, tearing Sendak out of his musings.

 

“Put a contract on Keith Kogane.”

 

“How much?”

 

“Two million.”

 

Sendak nods, turning away to make arrangements. He hears Zarkon murmur something under his breath and looks back.

 

“What?”

 

Zarkon looks up, his eyes meeting Sendaks, as if he just noticed the other man was in the room.

 

“Put my son in the ‘Quintessence’ and wait.”

 

Sendak raises his eyebrows. “For what?”

 

“For Keith Kogane.”

 

“And what of his….guest?”

 

Zarkon looks into his glass. “Put him into one of our warehouses. Don’t kill him yet. We might be able to make use of him later.”

 

* * *

 

 

Keith hauls the big, heavy, black suitcase into his trunk and slams the door shut. He goes through his mental checklist one more time before he enters the driving seat and drives. It’s a long way from here to the Castillo de Leones and he doesn’t intend on wasting time.

 

He wonders if anything changed since he left the business.

 

Probably not.

 

Coran’s never been one for changes, if they weren’t absolutely necessary. After all, the owner of the establishment would kill him if he in any way messed up her fathers legacy.

Literally.

 

* * *

 

 

Zarkon shifts in the luxurious kitchen stare. It is much too small for him, despite the man it belongs to being anything but.

 

His eyes are fixed on said man’s back, who is currently occupied with stirring a couple of vegetables in a mixer. Zarkon would have preferred alcohol, but it doesn’t really matter. He is not here for his amusement, after all.

 

The man turns around and walks over to him, offering him the glass.

 

“Thank you,” Zarkon says, using the opportunity to assess his host.

 

Thace is not much younger than him, but he doesn’t look like it. Neither his face, nor his body or posture show any signs of old age and his eyes still have a vigilant aura to them. The eyes of a man who is always on guard. An old joke told among members of the Galra family was that he’d sleep with them open.

 

“To what do I owe this visit?” Thace asks. The casual way he’s leaning on the counter and the way he watches Zarkon’s every move like a hawk create an interesting disposition, Zarkon muses.

 

He puts down the still filled to the brim glass of shreddered vegetables. “I have a job for you.”

 

Thace remains unmoved. “And I’ve got a phone.”

 

Zarkon chuckles. He’s forgotten how direct Thace is. It is rather refreshing compared to the usual bumbling and boot-licking he has to endure from most of his other underlings.

 

“I wanted to make you this offer face to face,” he replies. “Seeing as how you might find it...personal.”

 

Thace raises his eyebrows, urging him to continue.

 

Zarkon leans forward in his chair, fixing Thace’ eyes with his. “Would you kill Keith Kogane for two million Gak?”

 

Thace shows no visible reaction. He merely raises his glass and takes a sip, his eyes not leaving Zarkon’s.

 

“After all you were close,” Zarkon continues.

 

Thace hesitates for a moment before speaking again. “Is the contract exclusive?”

 

“No, it’s open. It has a time limit and needs to be handled quickly.”

 

A moment of silence passes by.

 

“Consider it done,” Thace says.

 

Despite himself, Zarkon feels some of the tension go out of him. He nods and gets up.

 

“Thank you, Thace. I knew I could trust you. Thanks for the drink.”

 

He’s lying of course. It’s foolish to trust anyone in this line of work. But the contract has already been made public. There are hundreds of assassins out there who will gladly take Keith Kogane’s life for money, should his mentor have a change of heart after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith pulls over in front of the huge building that is the Castillo de Leones. A brief look upwards as he pulls his suitcase out of the cargo bay confirms his musings – the place hasn’t changed at all. At least from the outside.

 

He hands his keys over to the nearest carriage master in the hotels trademark red uniform and enters the lobby, not noticing the vigilant pair of eyes following him from the other side of the road.

 

Pleasant, quiet smooth jazz surrounds him as soon as he enters. The lobby is separated by an elegant, black carpet, with tables and armchairs leisurely strewn about on both sides, almost all of them occupied. Keith doesn’t need to look to know that all of the people in this room are colleagues. There is a certain air of sophistication and cold calculation around them, both the mark of professionals. Most of them wear black or similarly dark colors and although none of them spares him even a glance, Keith can feel they’ve all been taking notice of his entering the hotel and are probably assessing him in their minds.

 

He’s been doing the exact same thing after all. He’s loathe to admit it, but this all feels a bit like…coming home.

 

Keith makes his way to the front desk. He’s not the only one checking in today. A woman with short hair, dyed purple, is already receiving her room key at the front desk.

 

“Room 918,” the receptionist tells her in the chipper voice and slightly amusing British accent Keith remembers so well. “Do enjoy your stay.”

 

“Thanks,” she answers, takes it and turns around.

 

Keith freezes.

 

He knows her. He’s only seen her twice and one of those times was at night, with his head half bashed in, but what transpired then has carved her features into his memory. She’s one of Lotors’ Generals. And from the cold, hateful look she gives him, she’s recognized him as well. For a moment, they just stand there, face to face, not moving a muscle.

 

When she finally breaks the silence, her voice is icy. “Good to see you again, Mr Kogane.”

 

He returns her glare with an equally cold one of his own. “Likewise.”

 

She huffs and brushes by him, heading straight for the elevator. Keith has to restrain himself not to run after her and lay his hands around her throat. He wouldn’t kill her of course. Just wait until she almost runs out of air, then ease up on the pressure long enough to ask her where Shiro is. And then he’d stab her and dump her cut-up body in the nearest incinerator.

 

Soon enough, he promises himself and Shiro.

 

He moves up the rest of the way to the front desk. Coran's smile is almost enough to calm him down.

 

“Good to see your face Keith,” he greets him, grinning from ear to ear. “I have you here for two nights?”

 

Keith nods. “Depending on business it may be more.”

 

“Of course,” Coran replies, taking notes in the black book in front of him.

 

Keth let’s his eyes wander around the room, taking in the relaxing, yet business-like atmosphere. The chandelabras hanging from the high ceiling filling the room with cool, white light. The intricate patterns on the walls. And the logo, shaped like a white lion’s head behind the front desk.

 

“This place really hasn’t changed at all,” he comments, not unfriendly. “How long’s it been now since…you know?”

 

“Four years,” Coran replies easily, handing Keith his key over the desk. “But I assure you it has lost none of it’s charm.”

 

“Same owner?” Keith asks, taking it and stuffing it in the pocket of his suit.

 

“But of course,” Coran replies, receiving the golden coins Keith is handing him with a smile. “Room 818.”

 

Keith nods and turns to the elevators.

 

“And as always,” Coran says, making Keith turn around again. “It’s a pleasure having you with us again, Keith.”

 

Keith doesn’t now how to feel. He hadn’t expected this sort of warm welcome. So he just gives a non-committal nod and walks away.

 

Some time later he sits on a pristine sofa, watching an old video on his phone. He’s taken it during their honeymoon. The happiest day of his life.

 

The picture is shaky and there is a constant hissing in the background from the wind. It shows Shiro on the beach, looking up at the stars. He turns around to look at the camera. Keith feels his throat tighten. The last time he’s seen his husbands warm dark eyes, they were filled with terror. In here, they contain only warmth and love.

 

“What are you doing, Keith?” Shiro laughs.

 

“Looking at you,” Keith hears himself reply. He can hardly believe he is capable of sounding so fond.

 

Shiro chuckles and extends his hand towards Keith. Keith almost takes it.

 

“Come here,” Shiro says, still smiling.

 

The screen tilts downwards and the video ends. Keith puts the phone back on the desk. For a while he does nothing, just stares out of the panorama window across from him. The skyline looks lovely, but he doesn’t really see it. His mind is racing.

 

One of Lotor’s Generals is here. Zarkon knows he is coming for his son and he knows he wants Shiro back. Keith has no illusions about his future. It is most likely that he will not survive. But at the very least, he is determined not to die until he’s freed Shiro. After that, he couldn’t care less what happens to him. He takes a look at his wrist watch. 9 p.m..

 

Time to go out.

 

The bar is open and if Keith’s memory of the owner serves him right, she will be there, waiting for him.

 

He only hopes Allura will hear him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about this chapter:
> 
> \- Making Kinkade Charlie was a spontaneous decision that I'm honestly rather proud of. I don't know whether or not I wanna integrate the rest of the MFE-pilots into the story, but tbh I don't think I will. Apart from Kinkade there really isn't anyone in that group of characters I like enough for that.  
> \- I had originally intended for Romelle to be Perkins, but then I realized she's just too sweet for that kind of role. Soooo, Axca is playing two characters now.  
> \- I had a similar issue with Marcus, whom I originally wanted to be played by Ulaz or Kolivan. But Kolivan just didn't strike me as that kind of character and Ulaz....already has another role in this AU. A completely original one, in fact. You can look forward to it ; )


	6. Chapter 4

Keith pulls into the driveway, the tires of his new slick, black Hennessy Venom F5 screeching in protest. Pidge hasn’t pulled any punches with his new vehicle. What it lacks in agility and lightness, it more than makes up for in speed. Still it’s not the Red Lion. Keith pulls the key from the ignition and gets out of the car, slamming the door shut.

 

He needs to prepare for what he is about to do. And what he’s about to do requires one thing in particular: Money. And a lot of it. Keeping himself from looking at Yorlack’s messy grave, Keith stalks over to the garden shed, pulls out his tool rack and grabs a sledgehammer. It feels heavier than when he bought it, Keith notes. He will have to do more muscle training.

 

He walks back into the house and pulls the basement door open. Lotor and his gang haven’t been down here it seems. Everything is still as orderly and clean as Keith has left it. Too bad he will have to disturb that order. The thumping of his feet on the wooden stairs is unbearably loud. Keith walks over to the center of the basement where a small rug resides, a thin coat of dust collecting on its surface. Keith pushes it aside with the edge of the hammer and carefully knocks on the concrete floor beneath. It seems as untouched as anything else in the room.

 

Keith lets out a slight sigh of relief. Going to acquire money through...other means would have taken time. Time he, and more importantly, Shiro does not have.

 

Keith slowly raises the sledgehammer over his head and with a grunt, brings it down on the concrete, hard. The resounding crash is nigh ear-shattering, but Keith doesn’t even hear it. He continues bringing the hammer down, again and again and again. Each time he imagines a different face.

 

Lotor.

 

CRASH!

 

The Generals.

 

CRASH!

 

Zarkon.

 

CRASH!

 

The ground gives way and Keith tosses the hammer to the side. He kneels down to brush the dust and debris out of the way, hands roaming in the destruction, searching. Finally his fingers meet solid wood. Keith roams around further until he feels a slight gap and pulls.

 

With a whiny creak, the box that has been hidden underneath the basement floor opens. And Keith stares into the past.

 

The crate in front of him is laid out with foam, keeping its contents from spilling around. There are two compartments. The right one holds a myriad of weapons, knifes, guns, syringes filled with all kinds of poison and most importantly, a silencer. The left is packed to the brim with gold. Actual gold, melted into coins. Each one a reward for a successful kill made for the family. Keith remembers receiving one for the first time, hands trembling and dripping with blood, his mother standing beside him her face full of pride and her hand on his shoulder.

 

It is one of his least favorite memories to date.

 

He buried the gold here in hopes he would never have to see it again. It is dirty money. Blood money. It reminds him of a time where killing and the family were the only things on his mind. A time before he met Shiro. He hates that he needs it now. But he’ll use it for a good cause.

 

Will that make what he did to get it right? No. Nothing will.

 

The phone ringing from the living room pulls him back to reality. Keith frowns and turns his back on the crate to look up the stairs. It’s probably Pidge, trying to warn him off again. But when he picks up, it’s not her voice coming from the other side.

 

“Hello, Keith.”

 

Keith freezes. It’s been years since he last saw him, but Zarkon’s voice still makes him tense up. He doesn’t respond to the greeting, head buzzing with possible reasons for this call. Does Zarkon know about Lotor and Shiro? If so, what does he hope to gain from calling?

 

“I’ve heard about your...encounter with my son and his associates,” Zarkon continues, seemingly not bothered by Keith’s lack of response. “I do not know if it was fate or simply immense misfortune that has caused the two of us to cross paths again.”

 

That answers that. Keith decides to remain silent and wait.

 

“I know you are not the savage everyone in the family claims you to be, Keith. I am certain we can settle this matter like civilized men.”

 

_Civilized men?_

 

Keith grips the phone so tight an onlooker might be afraid it will break.

 

Suddenly all he can see is Lotor’s smug grin, as he grabs Shiro’s chin ogling him, touching him, like Shiro was some sort of prize token-

 

His body responds before his brain can and he slams the receiver down with a loud ‘clang’. For a few seconds, all he can do is stand there, seething with rage, trying to stop his hands from shaking, his breath heavy.

 

* * *

 

 

On the other end of the line, Zarkon still holds the receiver to his ear, listening to the dial-up noise. Slowly, he lowers the receiver, putting it back on the stand. Then he sighs and leans forward, palms resting on the writing desk’s surface.

 

“I take it he didn’t like your offer?” a voice comes from behind him.

 

Zarkon doesn’t turn around. He can’t trust his emotions right now and Sendak is the last person he wants to show weakness to at this moment. Although Sendak is as fiercely loyal as he is brutally strong, Zarkon has always been able to tell when a man has ambition.

 

He waits for a few seconds before he slowly turns around to face his bodyguard. Sendak is leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed and smirking, a subtle glint of anticipation in his sole eye. He has lost the other while carrying out a job for the family that Zarkon can not for the life of him remember. But he is sure whoever is responsible for Sendak’s empty eye socket has not lived long enough to brag or gloat.

 

“No,” he finally answers, tone as neutral as the expression on his face. “No, he did not.”

 

Sendak uncrosses his arms and ambles across the room. “Then what will you do now?”

 

Zarkon lets the question hang in the air for a moment, before he answers. “Ready your troops.”

 

“How many?” Sendak asks.

 

“As many as you have. Tell them there is no need to be subtle,” Zarkon answers, turning around to look out of the window.

 

* * *

 

 

The water runs down Keith’s back, trailing dozens of scars as it does. His palms are pressed flat against the wall. He takes slow breaths, eyes closed and head lowered. After all this time, Zarkon still manages to make his defenses crumble and reduce him to, for him, a nervous wreck. Keith knows he shouldn’t have just hung up like that. If he’d been patient, he might have had a chance to get Shiro back without any violence.

 

But no. Keith has been in the family for the majority of his life. He knows the Galra – family never just give. They want. Zarkon knows how important Shiro is to him, yet instead of just sending him home right away, he’s decided to turn the whole situation into a business matter. Oh, it would have started out simple: just one little job and Shiro would be back in his arms, safe and sound. Except not really. One little job would have turned into two, two into four and at the end Keith would have found himself back in the family’s iron grip. That was how it started with most of the family’s employees. And it still is, no doubt.

 

No, this time he won’t let himself be played by them. He will not let them make Shiro into their bargaining chip.

 

Keith opens his eyes again and they fall onto the golden band on his right ring finger. Although he doesn’t know it, Shiro has saved his life the day they met. He’s shown Keith that there is more to the world, to him. That he doesn’t have to be the family’s killer forever and that there are things outside it worth living for.

 

Shiro has never given up on him. So neither will Keith.

 

With a last, shaky breath, Keith pushes himself away from the shower’s wall and turns the water off.

 

It is time.

He steps out of the shower dries himself off and walks over to the closet in their bedroom. The door creaks as he opens it. It sounds foreboding to him. The suit is still there, waiting. Keith hesitates for a second, then grabs it and pulls it out.

 

The years have been surprisingly kind to it. The fabric sill feels as smooth as it did the day he got it, yet when one would grab it tighter, they’d feel the bulletproof coat of lead underneath. It’s completely black, except for the tie, which is of a dark, red color. Keith had it commissioned exactly this way, much to his mother’s scorn.

 

“You’re never gonna get anywhere with this thing around your neck,” she had snorted when he’d tried it on for the first time. “Your target’s gonna see you coming from a mile away.” But they never had.

 

Memories similar to this one keep popping up as Keith puts the suit back on, carefully slipping spare magazines, smaller knives and a pistol into the myriads of hidden pockets. Just as he adjusts his tie, taking care to properly put it underneath his vest, so it won’t become a possible choking hazard, he hears a rustle.

 

Keith turns, frowning. It came from the window, no doubt. Which means someone is outside right now. Keith chuckles and shakes his head. Zarkon never was the patient type. Mere hours after their “talk” and he’s already sending people to their certain deaths.

 

With quick, efficient movements, he pulls out his gun and re-loads it, quietly going up to the bedroom door. The locks won’t hold them. They probably have his keys copied. Anything’s possible with the family.

 

Sure enough it isn’t long until he hears the click of a door from downstairs. Keith presses himself against the wall. The world around him seems to slow down. It’s been years since he’s felt like this. On edge. Cold. Bloodthirsty.

 

It doesn’t matter who these people are. It doesn’t matter if they have families or friends, he tells himself in his mind. They’re in his way. And if he doesn’t deal with them, he’ll be the one dealt with.

 

He hears the tell-tale ‘thump’ of steps on the stairs leading up to the bedroom. Here they come. With a ‘click’ he unlocks the gun’s safety. And waits.

 

The door knob begins to twist and turn and then the door swings open and conceals him behind it. The man entering his room looks twice his age, but Keith has learned from past painful encounters that ‘older’ doesn’t mean ‘slower’ in his business. And the way the man’s eyes zip around the room and his pose exudes pure vigilance, he is not to underestimate. Better to take him down quickly.

 

Keith waits until the man turns his head away from his position. Then he quickly switches the gun out for a small blade and zips out of his hiding place. The man can barely react before Keith rams the knife into his throat. The man makes a morbid gurgling sound, uselessly grabbing at the knife and then collapses, a puddle of blood forming underneath him.

 

Keith feels nothing as he pulls out the weapon and puts it back into his jacket. People in their line of work know the risks that come with the job. If it was Keith lying there, the man wouldn’t shed a tear.

 

Without throwing the body another glance, Keith walks back to the door as silently as possible. He’s been as quiet as he could manage under the circumstances, but there’s still a possibility that there are others down there who might have heard. Sure enough when he peaks around the corner, he can just make out a figure making it’s way towards the kitchen, gun raised and on high alert.

 

Keith frowns. No matter how good your back-up, in this line of work it’s never a good idea to turn your back on a room that hasn’t yet been cleared. He can’t help but wonder if the person downstairs is a novice on his first mission and if so how young they might be.

 

He grits his teeth and grabs the knife tighter. None of that.

 

Silent as a ghost, Keith makes his way down the stairs. The assassin doesn’t turn around, they’re still busy sneaking around the kitchen isle. Keith suppresses a smirk. He’s been against having that thing originally when he and Shiro were still looking for a house. Back then he found it to be to bulky and despised how much space it took up. Ironic, how it’s actually coming in handy now.

 

Two quick steps and he’s behind his opponent. They perk up as they feel his presence, but he slits their throat before they can yell a warning and they fall to the floor, their gun making a loud clattering noise as they do.

 

Keith tenses at the sound. He hears something behind him and dodges behind the isle just in time to feel a bullet graze the back of his head. The crack of the gunshot sounds like thunder in the until then so silent, dark room. Another joins him and bullet after bullet drills itself into the wall beside the isle. Keith huffs in frustration, pulling out his own firearm.

 

Dodging behind the counter, he rushes to the other side and presses himself against the marble. How many people are aiming at him right now? He strains to look at the glass door. The reflection shows two people, maybe three, the blur makes it hard to tell.

 

Keith waits for the telling pause that signifies the opponent has to switch magazines. In a flash, he rolls out from behind the corner, gun raised. It turns out there were four people. Keith manages to hit two of them in the head and the third one in the knee before he has to take cover again. The screams of the injured assassin almost drown out the loud thumping sound.

 

The remaining opponent has panicked and is trying to confront him directly. Good. As soon as the attacker swerves around the corner, Keith shoots them in the leg, making them drop to one knee. They don’t even have time to scream before they, too, get a bullet nudged into their skull.

 

The last one tries to crawl away before Keith ends their suffering.

 

Keith looks down at the steadily growing puddle of blood that’s forming under their head. He still doesn’t feel anything. It unsettles him, how quickly he’s become adjusted to this again.

 

The doorbell rings. The sharp tone makes him flinch for a moment and he grasps his gun tighter. He walks over to the door, hiding the weapon behind his back, eyes drilling into the small window.

 

Through it he can see the tell-tale blue and red of police car lights, partially blocked by the person standing outside.

 

Keith takes a deep breath, then presses down the handle and opens the door.

 

A bit of the tension goes out of his body when he sees who the officer is.

 

“Good evening Keith,” the man says, tipping his cap lightly.

 

“Evening Lance,” Keith replies, nodding his head. “Noise complaint?”

 

Lance grins sheepishly. “’Fraid so.” He tilts his head lightly. Keith follows his gaze to the three dead bodies still dripping with blood in full view. For a moment, none of them says a word.

 

“So, um...you’re working again?” Lance asks, taking off his cap. It’s a nervous gesture, Keith knows, something to keep his hands occupied.

 

“No. This was a personal matter,” Keith replies, holding Lances’ gaze.

 

Lance nods understandingly. “Ah. I’ll leave you be then. Good night Keith.”

 

“Good night Lance,” Keith replies, shutting the door on the other man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> I haven't written a fight scene in years and unfortunately it shows....
> 
> I really need to work on the pacing.
> 
> I honestly had no idea which character I wanted to be Jimmy the cop in this AU until the last second. Lance just seemed like the most fitting. 
> 
> For anyone baffled by how rash Keith was in making the decision to not even hear Zarkon's offer out: He witnessed this guy's son kidnap the love of his life roughly one day ago. Whatever Zarkon was about to say probably wouldn't have been enough to justify or make that up to Keith. Plus, Keith is kind of impulsive and quick to anger so given the circumstances Zarkon was fighting a losing battle from the start.


End file.
